


The Heartbroken

by lilidelafield



Series: Unconnected One Shot Stories [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 04:11:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16846882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilidelafield/pseuds/lilidelafield
Summary: Out of the blue, Illya receives a visit from the Russian Ambassador, with very bad news from home . . .





	The Heartbroken

**Author's Note:**

> I have been silent on this fandom for some time, but I found this little one-shot lurking on my PC. It was written several years ago, and so I decided it was about time it was resurrected to see the light of day.
> 
> This story bears no relation to any of my previously posted stories or series.

Alexander Waverley stared for a moment at the message in front of him. A formal request by the Russian Ambassador to see him here at U.N.C.L.E headquarters? The letter had not come directly from the Russian Embassy however, but from the American Embassy in Moscow. Clearly something of import had occurred. The thing to do would be to communicate with the Russian U.N.C.L.E office and find out what this was all about. He clicked a button on his panel which connected him immediately to any office around the globe. After a moment his Russian counterpart appeared on the screen. Vladimir Kolokov’s rather grim façade broke into a wide grin.

        “Waverley my dear fellow! How can I help you?”

        “I’ve had rather an unusual request from the American Ambassador in Moscow to allow your Ambassador here in the States to come here to see me in person. Any idea what this may be all about my dear fellow?”

Kolokov raised an eyebrow.

        “You think security risk?”

        “Oh no, it isn’t that. Cooperation is what U.N.C.L.E is all about after all. It just seems very out of the ordinary. Just how worried should I be?”

        “Well there are no international incidents at the moment to merit this kind of request. I would say it’s likely to be a more personal matter. For example there have been a number of gas explosions recently in some of the isolated power plants which the KGB have found to be caused by faulty pipework. Some small company employed to supply the gas piping used sub-standard materials to undercut the competition and we have started to suffer the results of that. So far most of the explosions have been in isolated places with few or no casualties. The last however happened at two o’clock in the morning in the middle of a suburb of Sochi. It has had people up in arms as it destroyed an entire street, burning down more than thirty houses and killing more than one hundred people. Several of those killed have relatives living or working abroad. The diplomatic core have been working all hours trying to inform everyone in person.”

        “There was no official news circulated about that, Vladimir.”

        “No, usual stifling of anything that might embarrass everyone, but the company responsible is being dealt with most severely. In the meantime….”

        “Well if it is something to do with the explosion, it’s not likely to be a request for assistance. For that they would have come to your office. No, it will be as you said a bringer of sad news. Only one of my people presently is from your neck of the woods.”

        “Kuryakin. It if is that, Alexander, let him know if he needs anything….”

Waverley nodded.

        “Thank you Vladimir.”

        “Anytime. Out.”

The screen went blank. Waverley pursed his lips for a moment and then picked up the telephone. Better to get this over with.

The Russian Ambassador to the United States, Ruslan Tarasov shook Waverley’s hand and waited to be invited before he took his seat. He seemed slightly nervous and ill-at-ease. His command of the English language was excellent. His accent barely noticeable. When Waverley complemented him, he smiled half-shyly.

        “My mother is British, and even now after living in Russia all these years, she is still having trouble with the language, so I grew up speaking both languages all the time. Mr Waverley, I have some bad news I need to impart to you for one of your men. A Russian citizen by the name of Illya Kuryakin. You know the man. Would he prefer to be told by his boss, his best friend or by a stranger?”

Waverley shook his head.

        “Mr Kuryakin is an extremely private man. Even Napoleon Solo, the man who knows him best knows very little about his background or his personal life. He might prefer it if you were to tell him whatever you need to tell him in private and in your own language. That way Mr Kuryakin will be able to retain as much personal privacy as he wishes.”

        “Very well Mr Waverley, I will do that. But I would like you and this Mr Solo to remain close by….just in case. Private he may be, but I have found most normal people need their closest friends to be nearby at times like this…”

        “Very well. You can use the conference room to speak to Mr Kuryakin. Mr Solo and I will remain here.”

        “Thank you sir.”

Waverley pressed a button on his desk.

        “Miss McNab, will you send Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin to my office immediately? Thankyou.”

Two minutes later the door opened and Napoleon Solo came in followed closely by Illya. They looked interested and attentive when they saw the visitor waiting for them. Waverley introduced them without preamble.

        “This is Napoleon Solo. Mr Solo I need to speak to you for a few minutes. This is Illya Kuryakin. Mr Kuryakin, this is Mr Ruslan Tarasov….”

Illya looked surprised.

        “Russian Ambassador to the United States? Pleased to meet you.”

Tarasov bowed slightly.

        “Mr Kuryakin, I have something of import to tell you. I need to speak to you somewhere private.”

Looking slightly surprised, and not a little apprehensive Ilya glanced at his boss.

        “Conference room. Take as long as you need.” Waverley told him. At the doorway Tarasov paused.

        “Mr Kuryakin, what I need to tell you is private, and I shall be speaking to you in Russian….but I would prefer that another person were present…..”

Illya frowned, his apprehension, if anything, intensifying. He could see that this diplomat was going to cover himself no matter what, and what private thing could anyone else learn if the conversation were to be carried out in Russian? He glanced to Solo.

        “Napoleon?”

 Solo glanced at Waverley and receiving his approving nod, followed the two Russians out of the room.

Napoleon Solo watched quietly from his corner of the room as Tarasov began speaking to Illya earnestly in Russian. He spoke for quite a long time, and after a bit, Solo watched all the blood drain from his friend’s face. He saw Tarasov clasp Illya by the shoulders in true Russian fashion, but gently as though reassuring or comforting. Illya responded, sounding tired or defeated. The conversation continued for a couple of minutes more, then Tarasov seized Illya’s hand and shook it. Illya looked ghastly. Tarasov walked to the door and Solo followed, Tarasov speaking to Mr Solo in a low voice.

        “I have had to give him some devastating news from home Mr Solo. He may tell you or he may not, but whatever happens he will need your support for a bit….”

Solo nodded and after the diplomat went out, he closed the door again and turned back to Illya. The man was still standing in the same place, like a statue; his face ashen. Solo stood in front of him and waited, saying nothing. Slowly Illya looked up. Now he knew why Mr Tarasov had wanted Solo in the room with them. No one could predict how people might react when you had to pass on news like this to them, and who enjoyed receiving news like this and dealing with it all alone? Secretly Illya was glad to have Napoleon here, but Napoleon still had no idea what had happened. He spoke no more than a few words of Russian, so had no way of knowing what they had been talking about. Illya wasn’t sure he wanted to tell him, but he knew for certain that for the next few days or weeks he would need Napoleon’s understanding. They still had work to do, missions to fulfil. That was the definite thing….concentrating on work was going to be hard for a while, but sitting at home now would be infinitely worse. He found his thoughts and memories rising to the surface like a tidal wave, bubbling over trying to overwhelm him.

He took a deep breath in an effort to calm himself down. Think professional! He thought, you’re a professional Illya! You don’t let emotions rule you, you rule them! Still the bubbling tide of emotion continued to rise through his body. He was aware that his knees were already shaking, soon it would be his hands…..

He looked up and found Solo still standing there, nothing but concern on his face. Solo’s wisecracking face was gone, banished by serious worry and concern as he watched the battle for control on Illya’s face, and he could only guess at the inner turmoil going on. Illya took a single step forward, intending to leave the room and continue with the global checks they had been engaged in earlier, when his whole body convulsed, and he lurched suddenly and found Solo had grabbed him and guided him to a chair. His feelings reached his chest and despite his rigorous efforts, they exploded. Illya surprised Solo and himself at the size of the sob that escaped. Illya managed to suppress any further sobs by an immense effort of his will, but his face buried in his arms and the shaking shoulders told their own story. Napoleon sat beside him silently, his arm around his friend’s shoulders for a good thirty minutes until Illya stilled and managed to calm himself sufficiently to be able to speak coherently.

Napoleon had not moved from his place except once to fetch him a shot of brandy which until this moment had been left untouched on the table. Illya reached forward now and downed it in a single gulp. When he looked round, Napoleon was surprised to see that Illya was smiling. His eyes were red and puffy and bloodshot, but he was smiling.

        “Thanks” Illya said simply. Napoleon nodded, unable to trust himself to speak.

        “How much did you understand?”

        “Not a single word Illya. Sorry.”

        “Don’t be. That’s why he told me in Russian, so that I wouldn’t have to tell you anything if I didn’t want to.”

        “You don’t have to tell us anything Illya. I gather it was something really bad…..I don’t need to know anything more. If you need anything at all…..”

Illya nodded. Napoleon saw his lip quivering slightly, and his whole body was still shaking slightly, but he was back in command of himself now…At least for the time being.

        “I’ve lost a lot of people I care about. Friends, family….” Illya told him simply.

Napoleon looked shocked.

        “Your family? How many of them Illya?”

Illya sighed shakily.

        “They were gathered at an aunt’s house in Sochi for a party….… Aunts, uncles, cousins….in all twelve people enjoying a party when a gas explosion destroyed the whole street, reducing the people, houses and even the concrete road virtually to powder. They’re all gone Napoleon….even my…..” his voice broke, and his eyes closed involuntarily. A tear slid down Illya’s face, followed quickly by another, then another. Illya cleared his throat and opened his eyes. Napoleon looked upset himself, almost as though it was his family who had died. Napoleon crossed the room and refilled Illya’s glass with brandy, and poured one for himself. He handed it over and blinked hard before downing his own swiftly.

“How do you come close to handling something like that Illya? Hard enough to lose one person, but everyone you have ever loved…..it's like it is too big to fit it all inside your head. Are you going to return home?”

Illya looked up dully.

        “What for? I have nothing left there now. My family are all dead, everything I loved destroyed. All I have left is here. My work…..my friends.”

“What about funerals, or memorial services? Will you want to go back for that?”

Illya shrugged.

        “The investigations are still ongoing according to Tarasov. The memorial service was yesterday. The funeral services will all have to wait until the investigations are over with. Anyway, from what he tells me there will be no bodies to bury, so what is the point?”

Solo and Waverley watched their comrade closely over the next two days. Kuryakin’s work…his focus and attention to detail were if anything even greater than usual, Solo found no difficulty in trusting the man to watch his back on assignment, but the light seemed to be gone from his eyes. Illya had always been focussed but he had always had a laugh to share with his friends and colleagues before. Now that was gone. He was almost recklessly brave. Napoleon could not help worrying about him. It was only to be expected that Illya would be out of sorts, to put it mildly, but his work had become almost an obsession. Waverley too seemed concerned about his number two operative, and he called Solo into his office alone. He was frank.

        “Mr Kuryakin is putting himself in danger in the field.”

        “He’s brave sir. He always has been.”

        “Don’t defend him Mr Solo, I know you know what I mean. It is one thing being brave, it is another being foolhardy. He has a lot on his mind, a lot to get over, but his job is not to get himself killed. He gets himself killed in the field that will only put his colleagues and this organisation in jeopardy, and you know that very well.”

        “I know what you mean sir, but I really do think we owe it to him to give him a little time. How would we feel if…..” he petered out, but Waverley had got the point. Waverley’s face softened slightly.

        “I understand, and I’m not about to throw him to the dogs, but neither can I allow him to continue behaving in this foolhardy manner. If I have to speak to him about it, it will put a black mark on his otherwise spotless record. That will permanently spoil any of his chances for future promotion. Mr Kuryakin is an outstanding young operative, and I need him in top form. I am assigning you to babysit him. I don’t care how you do it but I want you to try and help him get back to the man he used to be.”

        “Mr Waverley, with respect, he’ll never be the same man he was. How could he be? He’s lost twelve members of his family for crying out loud.”

        “Many of us did during the war Mr Solo. I’m not asking you to stop him grieving, merely to find a way to make him see he has more to live for than to die for.”

        “Yes sir.” Solo replied with a heavy heart. “I’ll do my best sir.”

This time Napoleon Solo really was at a loss to know how to proceed. How could he go about a task like this with someone like Illya without being told to sling his hook? He needed advice.

Marion Raven opened the door and groaned.

        “Napoleon Solo! I’m not going off on another of your missions, so don’t ask me!”

        “I’m not going to.” Napoleon replied softly. “Can I come in please Marion? I need your advice about something very delicate…..”

Marion frowned.

        “My advice? You who go traipsing around the world solving problems and mysteries, catching criminals and stopping wars need my advice? You had better come in. I really want to hear this.”

Her sceptical look softened when she realised that Napoleon was in earnest.

        “You’re really worried aren’t you? What is it?”

        “I’m worried about Illya.”

Marion sat up straighter. She had a very definite soft spot for Illya.

        “What has happened? How can I help?”

        “Oh Marion…..Illya has had some bad news from home….very bad news….”

        “Someone has died? Poor boy!” Marion looked genuinely upset. Solo sighed.

        “It’s worse than that. There has been a terrible tragedy, and a lot of people he cares about have died….along with a lot of others too.”

        “He must be devastated!”

        “I’m certain that he is, but you know Illya. He plays things close to his chest.”

She nodded with feeling.

        “He spends his life pretending to be a rock or a tree, I could almost believe it. But I know better.”

        “He’s a pretty good actor, but it’s affecting his work Marion. He’s becoming recklessly brave. I’ve been given the job of making him see sense…whatever that involves…if I can’t Mr Waverley will end up having to reprimand him, or worse, send him off on leave. Take it from me that would destroy Illya completely. I have an idea that his work is the only thing keeping Illya sane right now.”

        “I can imagine that. You haven’t faced a death in your immediate family before have you Napoleon?”

        “Not recently. Not anyone close to me. I have too much sympathy with the man, how do I go about…..how can I help him if I have no idea how he is feeling?”

Marion got the distinct feeling that Napoleon Solo was unused to feeling helpless and against her better feelings, she felt sorry for him.

        “You have a couple of choices.” She told him finally. “You can go pussyfooting around him trying to keep him out of danger’s way….”

        “That would only make him mad.”

        “Agreed. Or you could be honest with him about the whole thing.”

        “Same result.”

        “Maybe. Maybe not. You’re supposed to be his best friend Mr Solo. That’s what friends do is they tell the truth. It might be that he really does want to die, or it might be that he feels so bad right now that he thinks dying will take away the pain.”

Napoleon looked very unhappy, More so than she had ever seen him. She smiled sympathetically.

        “You men are all just little boys at heart aren’t you? Listen Napoleon, at the end of the day he needs to face up to what has happened, admit it too himself. Illya thinks he is as tough as a rock. Well he is most of the time, but vinegar dissolves rock. Hannibal proved that. Sickness, and death act like vinegar. No one can stand up to them forever. Sooner or later we all get caught, however strong we are. You need to help him face it. It might be that there is something else he hasn’t told you. Something that makes the bearable _un_ -bearable.”

        “So I engineer a way to get him talking?”

She smiled.

        “What about stuck in a lift? Too obvious?”

        “Too easy to escape from a stuck lift.”

        “Well you’ll think of something. Let me know how you get on.”

        “Thank-you Marion. I mean it.”

Solo considered various schemes for getting himself and Illya alone where they could talk, but Illya was no fool. He would see through anything like that in a second, and what was more, Solo knew that anything less than the plain truth would go a long way to undermining their excellent working relationship, never mind their personal friendship. They were both excellent agents individually, with success rates that rivalled each other, even though their methods differed greatly. Together they were the best team section two of U.N.C.L.E had ever had. The only way with Illya would have to be direct. That meant at headquarters, which meant the risk of being interrupted, or someplace else….his apartment, or Illya’s….or maybe a bar somewhere. He armed himself with a couple of bottles of beer and a large Chinese take-out meal and knocked at Illya’s front door.

There was movement within, but no one came to the door. Solo knocked again and, with some sense of fair play, called out softly;

“Illya, it’s me. I need to talk to you.”

        “Go away Napoleon. I need to be alone.”

        “I know that Illya, I’m sorry. But it is important that I talk to you…..I come bearing gifts….food for the hungry….beer for the soul.”

There was a pause, then the door opened a crack and Illya’s face appeared, hair mussed and tousled, wearing a sweaty tracksuit. He looked faintly resentful, but after a moment, his expression softened.

        “You’d better come in.”

Napoleon entered Illya’s apartment, he realised, for the first time. The room he was standing in was not a lounge or any kind of official reception room. It appeared to be rather some kind of overgrown entrance hall, containing an elaborate coat-stand by the door, with nothing on it; a radio on a small table sitting snugly in one corner and two giant sized bean-bags in front of it. The centre of the room was devoted to several pieces of exercise equipment. Three doors led off the hall in different directions. They were all closed. Illya gestured to the bean-bags.

        “Take your pick.”

Solo handed him the bag he was carrying, and produced two bottles of beer from inside his coat. Illya allowed a slight smile and took the bottles.

        “I’m not hungry. I’ll enjoy the beer though, thanks.”

        “You’re not hungry?”

Illya glared at him and shook his head. He cracked open the bottles on the edge of his rowing machine and handed one of them back to his friend, taking a long swig from the other. Solo half smiled and sipped at his own beer then started opening the food parcel. He handed a couple of foil dishes to Illya with a plastic knife and fork.

        “In case you change your mind.”

 Illya squatted on the floor, regarding his somewhat unwelcome visitor with half-closed eyes.

        “So what do you want to talk to me about?”

        “Something…..rather delicate.”

        “Oh I see.”

Solo wondered if he really did see. He raised an eyebrow and Illya took another swig from his bottle.

        “I wondered how you would do it. I half expected the softly softly approach. So this the direct approach?”

        “So you do see then?

        “Everyone at headquarters has been throwing looks of worried sympathy at me for three days now. It’s beginning to get annoying.”

        “They care about you that’s all Illya. That and the fact that you seem to be going a step too far sometimes since….”

        “So?”

        “The last time I lost someone really close to me Illya, I was too young to really understand what it meant, so I have no way of understanding exactly how you’re feeling….but I think…..I think there is something eating at you….I have aunts and uncles and cousins, and I’ve not seen any of them for years. I would be sad if they died, but….who was it you really lost Illya? The grief I witnessed was not from a man who had lost aunts and cousins. It was a lot closer to home.”

        “What difference does it make to you who it was?” Illya replied with some force. “It’s none of your business anyway.”

        “No you’re quite right.” Napoleon replied quietly. “It is none of my business, but I only want to help. The thing is Illya, Mr Waverley is quite prepared to give you an official caution or even a period of leave if you don’t begin to take better care of yourself in the field. You refused compassionate leave, and it is your choice, but being so brave that you become almost reckless is completely against policy. You came out top of your UNCLE training class didn’t you? It means that you know as well as I do what Mr Waverley is concerned about. If anything happened to Waverley or myself, you would be in day facto charge of the New York HQ. You need to make sure you are able to handle whatever comes.”

        “And UNCLE agents are trained to keep themselves in top form, physically, mentally and emotionally, yes Napoleon I know all that. So are you here officially or personally?”

        “Well if I was talking to you in an official capacity, we would be in my office right now. I’m here as your friend. Besides, good partners are hard to find and impossible to replace. You have time Illya, you can be as moody and dour as you need to be, but you need to….” Napoleon stopped in mid-sentence and shook his head, and taking a deep breath, took a forkful of food instead. Illya frowned.

        “I need to what?”

        “Nothing….no nothing. I just….I j….” Solo’s voice broke, and when he glanced up, Illya had leaned forward and was watching him intently.

        “How did you manage to become such a well-adjusted human being Napoleon? Always cheerful, clever and able, self-confident almost to the point of arrogance, wisecracking, womanising and yet you still care very deeply about other people. People with your attributes are usually self-centred but you’re not.”

Solo held his friend’s gaze.

        “It helps when you have people you care about. I need you Illya. I need you as the man you have always been. My friend, my partner, my back, my conscience….I really want to help you, but I don’t know how. I’ve never been in your position, I have no idea how you must be feeling. I just want to help you somehow. I’m also a little….”

        “A little what?”

        “Afraid that you’ll lose yourself in what has happened, and that we’ll lose you as a result.”

Illya stood up and turned around, so Napoleon could see only his back.

        “Russians are a very passionate people, did you know that?”

        “I’ve always suspected it.”

Illya walked to the far side of the room and stood leaning with his back against the wall, looking at his friend with eyes that seemed to gleam somehow.

        “I have always worked very hard to suppress that. Efficiency in our line of work is not helped by being passionate or emotional.”

        “Marion Raven called you a `rock’”

That brought a slight smile.

        “I am. Cold, hard and efficient….just a part of the furniture. If you refuse to become emotionally involved in anyone or anything you can never be compromised. That is one lever Thrush would never be able to hold against me because I always refuse to become personally involved.”

        “But you’ve never been that detached Illya. You care about people too, I’ve seen it.”

        “And this is what caring about people does to you when you lose them. Is it better not to care for anyone at all after all? Become completely cold-hearted and detached? Or to join them wherever they are now?”

        “Who did you lose my friend? Who did you really lose?”

For answer, Illya thrust his hand behind the radio on the table behind Solo’s bean-bag and withdrew a large photograph of a beautiful smiling young woman with dark skin and dancing eyes, and beside her a beautiful little girl with olive skin and long curly brown hair clutching a large white rose to her face and laughing delightedly. Solo’s face broke into a warm smile.

        “They are beautiful Illya. Just…beautiful.” He stopped at the stricken look on Illya’s face.

        “Who are they?”

        “I grew up in Kiev. I’d never lived in Sochi. I visited there several times on holiday though. This is Katya. It was her family who were killed in that explosion Napoleon.”

He wiped something from his eyes.

“Her family were so wonderful people. They accepted me on sight. Adopted me and made me feel at home. I was happier with them than I….” He stopped abruptly. “Katya, her parents, her brothers and their wives were having a party to celebrate Anisha starting school.”

Illya took the photo from Napoleon and ran a finger down the face of the little girl, a sort of hungry desperation on his face that Solo had never seen before.

        “They are my family Napoleon. Katya and Anisha, my wife and my daughter. My lovely Katya and my little Ani…both burned to death…..Ani was only six….”

Illya had refused to think about it. If he refused to admit it aloud, then he was able to somehow picture them alive and well somewhere. Perhaps they had escaped somehow and he just had not heard yet….but he knew in his heart of hearts that they were gone. Katya would never have left him to worry. She would have got hold of him for sure to let him know that she was all right. He was no longer able to hide the facts from himself. He had lost his dear wife and his gorgeous little girl. Big fat tears started rolling down his face. Realising Napoleon was there, he hurriedly wiped them away, but the tears were falling faster now and he was unable to stop them. He wished Napoleon would go away, but he was still there, sitting cross legged on that ridiculous Bean-bag. At that moment, Napoleon stood up.

        “I’m so sorry my friend.”

        “Just go Napoleon. I can’t…..please just…..” Illya knew he was about to lose control of himself, and he really didn’t want to do it in front of Napoleon, but still Napoleon was still here.

        “What are you going to do now Illya?”

        “Who cares? What I do with my life is my choice isn’t it? Fine, if I am endangering everyone at UNCLE I’ll leave.”

Napoleon snatched the photo out of Illya’s hand and held it out so his friend was forced to look at it.

        “She cared Illya!” Napoleon was stunned to find himself shouting. “Katya cared! Little Anisha cared! I care! Waverley cares! You have to grieve Illya, in your own way, either alone or at work, whatever works for you, but what would Katya say to you this moment if she could? Would she tell you to leave UNCLE or go and get yourself killed? Would she suggest you buy yourself a brewery and drink all the pain away? Would that make her proud? You told me a while ago that Russians are by nature a passionate people. Why are you so scared to be Russian for a bit? You’re acting like an Englishman with their damned stiff upper lip, but you’ll end up with their neuroses too! Forget everything else for a day or two. Forget about being an invincible rock, and just be yourself. Be Illya Kuryakin, a passionate caring man who’s just lost his wife and daughter in a tragic accident.”

Napoleon headed for the door. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, and Illya just caught him hurriedly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

        “Look, I’m sorry I shouted Illya. I’d better go before you lay into me…”

Before Illya could decide how to respond, Napoleon was gone. Left alone with his photo, he thought about them, how he had seen them last, three weeks ago playing tag in the fields behind the house, Katya and Ani coming with him to the airport to wave him away. They had always waved him away, neither of them had ever begged him to stay or asked why he had to go. Neither had Katya even suggested that he try and get a transfer to the Russian HQ of UNCLE so that he would be closer to them. No they had accepted him exactly as he was and loved him for it. He was a much poorer man for having lost them and he knew it….and yet his life had been so enriched by having shared theirs. Katya would expect him to “keep being brilliant” as she had often said. He could hear her voice even now saying the words. To give up everything now would dishonour their memories, Illya decided at last. They had been so proud of him and loved him so much while they were alive, how could he give everything up now they were dead? Katya had been so determined that he should lose nothing by marrying her and she had been completely supportive of his every decision, he would have to carry on for her. If he kept living, Little Anisha would be alive in his heart. Everyone else who had known her had died in the same explosion that had killed her. If her daddy gave up too, everything would be lost.

He looked again at their faces in the photo, shining out at him, and gulped. He would never see them again. Either of them. They were gone forever. As the tears started to flow freely at last, Illya slowly slid down the wall and curled himself into a foetal position on the floor.

        “Did you manage to speak to Mr Kuryakin?” Waverley asked Solo the next day, without preamble. Solo nodded, but his mouth turned down.

        “I’m surprised he didn’t punch me out. I have no idea whether I actually made things better or worse. I guess we’ll have to just wait and see.”

The door opened at that moment, and Kuryakin himself came in quietly. He was pale, and he had dark circles under his eyes as though he had not slept all night, but he had clearly made an effort and was dressed in a smart black suit with a black turtle-necked sweater and his hair was freshly washed and still slightly damp. Illya nodded at Waverley.

        “Morning sir.” He glanced at Solo. “Can I have a quick word?”

In Solo’s office, with the door shut, Illya held out his hand. Solo shook it tentatively.

        “I just wanted to thank you for last night. For coming round to try and make me see sense. It can’t have been easy.”

        “…It wasn’t.” Solo replied after a stunned pause.

        “I admit for a moment last night I felt like punching you out, but it wasn’t you I was angry with.”

        “Did you get any sleep?”

Illya sighed softly and shook his head.

        “No.”

Solo believed it. His friend’s eyes were still slightly bloodshot. Illya must have been sitting up crying for most of the night, and that was a good thing. He was unspeakably relieved that he hadn’t gone and thrown away their friendship anyway. Time was all that was needed now. Just time.


End file.
